Birthday Lessonsby Minx

Blue Earth, Minnesota1987

"So…what do you say, next year…we just stay in for your birthday?" Jim Murphy gave what he hoped was one of his most pleasant, man-of-the-cloth, sympathetic smiles to John as he refilled the man’s mug with more coffee from the pot off the stove and then added a healthy splash of whiskey to it for good measure.

"I’ll even have one of the ladies from my church bake you a nice cake," he added in a hopeful tone as if that would make amends for this evening’s disaster.

John remained silent and gave the pastor a careful look. He studied his friend, fingers ticking agitatedly against the side of his ceramic coffee mug before he finally spoke.

"You do realize you were the one that suggested we go out to eat tonight, right?" John asked, brows rising. His voice, although even-toned, had an acerbic quality to it that didn’t go unnoticed by Jim. However, the smart-ass smirk on John’s lips softened the question into more of a dig than an accusation.

"You planning to spank me too?" Jim teased.

John didn’t say anything. He just gave his friend a speculative look that bordered on dangerous.

"More whiskey?" Jim coughed, holding up the half-empty bottle of Bushmills, his face flushing a deep scarlet that could be discerned even in the dim light of the parsonage’s kitchen.

"Getting me drunk won’t make it any better," John grumbled tiredly. He swiped a hand across his face, picking up his mug to take a deep sip, then let a faint smile ghost across his face as the warmth of the alcohol-laced coffee hit his stomach. "Although, I guess it sure as hell wouldn’t hurt either," he chuckled, shaking his head.

John’s gaze fell absently down to the cloth-covered kitchen table. He rubbed a callused finger over the crayon drawing in front of him. The picture was done in a child’s hand, with clumsy letters and exaggerated lines. To the father’s forgiving eyes, though, it was perfect. The best birthday present he could have asked for.

John’s face relaxed, eyes softening. He picked the paper up, head tilted to one side, studying it with a warm sense of pride. A smile crept over John’s face as he turned the drawing around to show Jim.

SEVERAL HOURS EARLIER…

It was John Winchester’s thirty-third birthday, and Jim Murphy decided to treat his good friend and associate to dinner at a nice restaurant for the occasion. Jim was a small-town country preacher and well accustomed to living within a tight, and sometimes non-existent, budget. He’d learned to live comfortably enough, but rarely had the luxury of a night out. As a result, Jim was as pleased as John and the two young boys to take the evening off and indulge in someone else’s cooking for a change. For the Winchesters, who rarely had the time, much less the money, to sit down and savor a nice meal in a place that didn’t use paper napkins or have a drive-thru window, this was an unexpected and much appreciated treat.

John was in the bathroom shaving in preparation for the night out when Jim walked by, stopping at the open door.

Jim raised his eyebrows in mock admiration, a twinkle in his eye. "Well, I’m honored, John, truly," the pastor teased as he grabbed a tie off the towel rack behind the door. "But, you don’t have to get all gussied up for little old me."

"Shut up," John replied with a lazy chuckle, dragging his razor over his jaw line, careful not to nick himself.

Jim continued to smirk and then batted his eyelashes at John, earning a spectacular eye roll from the hunter.

"Yeah, my standards aren’t that low, Murphy," John remarked dryly. He picked up the towel he’d left on the counter and threw it at Jim as the pastor exited the bathroom laughing, leaving John to finish shaving in peace.

Jim wandered into the boys’ room to see if Dean and Sam needed any help dressing.

"No, Sammy, not that one," Jim said, overriding the youngster’s first choice of a red and blue Spiderman sweatshirt.

"How come?" Sam whined.

"Because Dad said we gotta get all dressed up n’ shit tonight," Dean stated.

"Hey!" Jim started, frowning as he helped Sam wrestle into a striped pullover. "Watch the mouth, young man!"

At the challenge, the four-year-old squirmed away from Jim’s hands and darted out the door, Dean at his heels. Jim sighed heavily, glad to leave them in their father’s capable hands.

John fidgeted with his collar once more. He wasn’t used to wearing a dress shirt, not since...well not since Mary...but no, he pushed the thought from his head and the pang that came with it. This wasn’t the night for reliving those old hurts. This was a night to celebrate friends and family, and that’s exactly what he was going to do.

He heard a giggle, closely followed by a squeal and looked up in time to see Dean and Sam racing like bounding puppies into the room, Dean in the forefront, with his longer legs, and Sam eagerly chasing after him, letting out another high-pitched shriek of delight. Dean reached him first and patted his pants leg, eyes gleaming in triumph.

"I win!" Dean announced, and then was jostled aside as Sam came skidding to halt, grabbing John’s entire left leg, encircling it in his chubby arms as he giggled helplessly.

"I win too!" he happily stated, craning his neck up to beam at John with open childish glee.

Smiling, John bent down and pried his four-year-old from his leg, hoisting him up in his arms, regarding him with a smile in his eyes. Sammy pummeled him with an enthusiastic hug.

"You win too, huh?" John teased, breathing in the soft scent of baby shampoo from Sam’s curly head, making him squeeze the warm bundle of Sammy all the tighter. He pulled away slightly, to quirk a brow at the boy. "And just what did you win, Sam-I-Am?" he questioned gently.

"Sammy and me had a race to see who could get to you first, Daddy," Dean piped up, grinning. "I won ‘cause of I’m bigger and Sam’s not, but he can win after me."

John chuckled at the eight-year-old’s logic. Dean could be quite competitive, no doubt, but he was also very attuned to his little brother’s need to keep up with him and was usually willing to make concessions on Sam’s behalf to keep the child happy. In this case, that meant a tie in the race.

"You boys ready?" John asked as he set a wriggling, excited Sam back down next to Dean.

He reached down and casually yanked up Dean’s jeans, which were drooping a little. They were a little too big for his slim waist and had to be rolled up at the cuffs so he wouldn’t trip. But John figured it’d be a lot less expensive to buy them a little big and let the boy grow into them than to keep shelling out money he didn’t have to fit Dean into new pants every other month or so. The kid was growing like a weed.

"Are we dressed up ‘cause we’re going to church?" Sam asked, big green eyes blinking up at John questioningly as he rubbed a hand over his nicest shirt.

"No, you dope," Dean replied with an exaggerated eye roll. He smacked Sam in the back of the head, eliciting a cranky squawk from the younger boy who turned flashing eyes on his big brother, fists clenched, prepared for some pay back.

John quickly took hold of Sam, pulling him close against his legs to prevent retaliation and shot Dean a warning look. "What did I tell you about hitting your brother?" he questioned sternly.

"Not to do it," Dean quietly answered, squirming a little under his father’s reproachful gaze.

"That’s right, bud," John admonished. "I don’t want to see any more of that tonight, Dean. We clear?"

"Yes, sir," Dean said, his lower lip pooching out ever so subtly. He hated it when his Dad lectured him.

John addressed Sam who was energetically banging against his legs, wanting to be let loose.

"Sammy, that goes for you too, kiddo." Sam leaned back, flashing a grin at his dad’s upside down face as John leaned over his head to catch his eyes. John shot him a serious look. "I want you and Dean to be on your best behavior tonight. Pastor Jim is taking us to a nice restaurant for dinner."

"Denny’s?" Sam guessed.

John stifled a snort of laughter, releasing the little ball of energy otherwise known as his son. In Sam’s defense, the four-year-old didn’t have much experience with eating out other than the usual little grease traps they stopped at. It wasn’t so surprising that Denny’s was Sam’s idea of class.

"No, Sammy," John gently corrected his child. "We’re going someplace a little nicer than Denny’s. This place will have cloth napkins and menus that aren’t covered in plastic."

"Can I still has a hotdog?" Sam asked, nervously picking at his shirtfront until John gently stopped him.

"I don’t want a hotdog, Dad," Dean whined. "I want a steak."

John shook his head in amusement. "Since when do you eat steak, Dean-o?"

"You eat steak," Dean said seriously, looking up at his father.

John grinned. "Tell you what, champ," he said, tugging on Dean’s ear to make him giggle. "I’ll let you have some of my steak and we’ll see what they have on the kid’s menu that you might like, okay?"

Dean nodded, thinking it sounded reasonable. After all, he didn’t really mind hot dogs, if that’s what was offered.

Jim poked his head into the room, a genuinely warm smile flitting across his lips at the little threesome. It amazed him sometimes that for all they’d been through, John and the boys could still have moments of normalcy like this one.

"You about ready, John?"

John nodded. "Yep. Give me a sec to finish briefing the troops here, and we’ll meet you downstairs." He squatted down, bringing Dean and Sam up beside him, an arm on each boy’s shoulder, gaze traveling between them, making sure they were paying attention.

"Okay, just so we’re clear. Here are the rules: no hitting, no yelling, no kicking, no biting..." John looked pointedly at Sam on this last one.

His youngest had nearly taken a sizeable chunk out of Dean’s arm with his teeth the other night when Dean had tried to sit on Sam’s head in the middle of Jim Murphy’s living room for no other reason than to assert his rank in the Winchester pecking order. John had given both of them a couple of firm swats to the tail to remind them that he was ultimately at the top of said dog-pile and always would be, and that biting and bullying weren’t going to cut it with him.

Sam gave a solemn nod that he understood. He definitely didn’t want another spanking from his daddy any time soon.

Satisfied, John continued. "You boys are going to be perfect gentlemen while we’re at the restaurant. No name-calling, no throwing things and be polite. Got it?"

Two little heads nodded vigorously as they fidgeted, anxious to be on their way. John straightened up and shooed the two boys in front of him, grabbing up their jackets from the straight-back chair near the door to his room. As Dean and Sam scrambled down the stairs, John worried that one of them might take a tumble at the speed they were going. Nevertheless, they managed to reach the bottom in one piece, albeit a bit sweatier than he would have liked. Ah well, better they burn that extra energy off now than to be this hyper in the restaurant.

As they hit the front door, literally, smacking into it with open palms to hear it give a satisfying rattle, Jim Murphy met them, coming from the kitchen where he’d left a light on for when they got back later. He smiled at John, and then turned to give Dean a studious glance, eyes narrowing.

"I’m sure your father’s told you to behave yourself, but I also want to add that I haven’t been too thrilled with some of the words that have been coming out of your mouth lately. Let’s try to keep the language clean this evening while we’re out in public."

Dean winced and shot a guilty look over to his dad, who nodded in agreement with his friend. He’d forgotten that one earlier. Dean was at the age where he was highly impressionable, especially with adults he admired, namely John, Jim and Bobby Singer. Unfortunately, Bobby wasn’t used to having children around and had had a bit of a time keeping his swearing down to a minimum in front of the boys the last time they’d been to visit.

As far as John was concerned, his kids were nothing if not astute. Hell, they soaked up information like a sponge to water, no matter how hard he tried to shield them from some of the uglier things their rough lifestyle as hunters entailed. And what was it Mary had always said? ‘Little pitchers have big ears.’ True to the saying, Dean had managed to pick up a few of the more colorful phrases Bobby liked to use and was ever on the lookout to use them at the most inappropriate times.

"Dude, watch the mouth," John warned, shaking a finger at his son who shot him the most innocent look he’d ever seen. "I mean it, Dean. I’m not going to be happy if we have to talk about it later."

"’Kay," Dean replied absently as he grasped at the doorknob, more than ready to leave. He really wanted to go because he’d never been to a fancy restaurant before and the whole idea of something new intrigued him.

"Son." John’s voice was commanding enough to snap Dean’s head around in a semblance of attention.

"Yes, sir," Dean responded, sighing. "Can we go now? I wanna get there before they run out of food."

"They’re not going to run out of food," Jim assured him, shaking his head.

But Dean wasn’t convinced. "They might," he pressed, turning the knob and flinging the door open, almost smacking Sam in the face with it in the process.

John caught the door just in time, letting out a frustrated sigh, and guided his youngest child carefully around the obstruction and out into the cool evening.

"It’s not a sin to be young and eager," Jim gently cautioned as he watched Dean bound down the porch stairs, Sam loping behind him, whining for Dean to wait up.

John gave Jim a wry look of amusement. "Easy for you to say. They’re not yours."

Jim laughed heartily and clapped his friend on the back. "All God’s children are mine, John," he teased as they headed for the driveway and the car. "That’s why patience is considered to be such a virtue."

And so, it was with much excitement and a little bit of trepidation that the four piled into the Impala and headed off for the local sit-down restaurant.

Things went fairly well over all, despite Dean momentarily forgetting his manners by picking his nose in the busy lobby area while the quartet of hunters waited to be seated, and Sam’s initial squawking over having to use a booster seat in order to reach the tabletop.

"I don’t want a baby seat!"

"What did I say about yelling?" John quietly warned his youngest. "Sit down, Sam," he ordered, picking up his youngest to set him down in the seat.

Sam resisted, refusing to bend his legs enough for John to slide him into the seat. He shot his father a rebellious look, glaring at the offending item, his refusal of the order all but verbally stated.

Jim hid his smirk of amusement as John and Sam stared one another down. He was impressed by the similarities in father and son when it came to stubbornness, right down to the set of the jaw and dangerous glint of bull-headed determination in the eyes of both of them. What Sam lacked in size, he more than made up for with his indomitable pint-sized glower, but John had thirty years practice on his kid when it came to being opinionated and tenacious. Not to mention the singular authority of fatherhood on his side.

"Samuel," John said, his voice dropping low in warning.

Sam remained impassive. One small foot shot out to roughly tap the side of the booster seat, not a full kick per se, but enough to be construed as a further show of defiance.

John sighed and started counting. "One..."

Sam folded instantly, quickly plopping his butt down in the plastic seat without further complaint. It was one thing to stick to his guns, but when Dad began to count, well then, it was a matter of self-preservation, or at least preserving his tender backside. Sam was nothing if not a quick learner on that score.

John gave Sam a gentle pat on his tousled head, smiling his approval at the child for choosing to cooperate rather than making a scene.

Once the boys were settled and occupied with their dinners, John began to relax a little, actually enjoying himself, focusing on the good food and adult conversation that for once didn’t include anything having to do with demons, hunting or Mary’s death. He even went so far as to order a beer for himself. What the hell, John thought; it was his birthday. And, it was turning out to be a rather pleasant evening.

Unfortunately, the assessment was a little premature. John knew he should have seen it coming sooner or later. So, he wasn’t quite sure why he surprised when his eight-year-old loudly announced to the waitress and everyone else sitting within a ten-foot radius of their table, that his chicken tenders tasted "shitty".

Jim literally choked on his coffee, eyes going wide. The petite brunette, who was their waitress, stood with her dainty mouth forming a perfect "O" as she stared down in mild surprise at Dean.

"Dean James Winchester," John angrily hissed from across the table, fixing a heated glare on his oldest child as the diners around them grew hushed. "What did I say about swearing? You tell her you’re sorry," He nodded to the waitress. "Now."

"M’sorry," Dean mumbled, frowning down at his plate of barely touched food, lower lip jutting out unhappily as he tried not to sniffle, offended by his dad’s harsh tone. He nudged one of the aforementioned chicken pieces in distaste with the tip of a finger. "Daddy, these little fuckers really do taste like shit. Honest."

John, ever the picture of composure when faced with ghosts or demons, was at a loss for words. Unfortunately for him, his youngest wasn’t.

"Shit!" Sam suddenly exclaimed at the top of his lungs, grinning up from his plate of spaghetti to mimic his older brother with glee. "Shitty, shit, shit!"

"Shut up, Sammy!" Dean snapped, his little brows creasing in anger.

Sam’s eyes narrowed, cherubic face going dark. He looked down at the glass of water near his elbow and back up at Dean. The next thing anyone at the table knew, Dean was gasping from the shock of ice water hitting him in the face.

Sam’s face crinkled into a triumphant grin that lasted all of ten seconds before Dean retaliated. Without a thought, the eight-year-old picked up a breaded chicken strip from his plate, cocked his arm back and threw it at Sam, hitting his brother right between the eyes with uncanny precision. If it hadn’t been food Dean was throwing and his brother he was assaulting, John might have been proud at how well his kid’s aim was. But, such wasn’t the case.

Sam blinked in stunned surprise, reaching up to brush at the crumbs left on the bridge of his nose by the missile, green eyes bright with a mixture of shock and anger. His pudgy face screwed up in an ugly grimace as he prepared to let out a wail of indignation. However, his tantrum was interrupted before it could even get underway by John’s booming, angry voice.

"BOYS!"

John thought for sure he was going to have an aneurysm right there in the middle of the restaurant.

It seemed as if everyone in the room was now staring at them, looks ranging from embarrassed amusement to offended distaste. The last thing John needed or wanted was this kind of exposure. John noted with rising distress that Jim wasn’t doing much better,. The pastor’s hand shook in obvious consternation as he quickly grabbed up his water glass to keep from choking to death, gulping down the water as if he was a man dying of thirst in the middle of the Sahara.

Both men were uncomfortably aware of the fact that a large portion of their audience were also parishioners of Jim’s church. Well, this is just great, John thought in irritation. So much for the cloak of anonymity to lessen the humiliation of the evening.

John let out a ragged breath, deep color rising to his clean-shaven cheeks. He turned and gave an apologetic look to the waitress before tossing a dark, threatening glower over to his sons, who went silent, shrinking in their seats at their father’s ominous demeanor.

"I am so sorry," John began, but the waitress held up her hand.

"Oh, no, hey, don’t worry about it," the girl stammered, trying hard not to burst out laughing now. In fact, she was biting the inside of her cheek hard enough to draw blood to keep from losing it. "I have a little one myself, so I know how...you know."

"Thanks," John muttered tightly as he threw his napkin down on the table, kicking himself for letting his guard down about this evening. Stupid. "We’re leaving," he sternly ordered, standing and reaching for his wallet.

"John," Jim rose now too, putting his hand on the other hunter’s arm. He could feel the corded muscles of John’s forearm bunching in anger beneath his touch, and he gave John a pacifying look. "This was supposed to be my treat, remember?"

"Some treat," John snapped under his breath, but he relented and stuffed his money back into his wallet.

Not wanting to cause any more of a scene, John quickly rounded the table, keeping his eyes down, as he scooped Sam up out of his booster seat, and then swiveled to guide Dean out of his chair by the boy’s shoulder. Jim quietly paid the bill, making sure to leave a generous tip on the table in atonement for the fiasco and considerable mess the boys had managed to leave.

Sam, at four, had no real cognizance of the amount of trouble he was in, other than Daddy was real mad. He began to cry and squirm in his father’s arms as the group threaded their way between the tables towards the exit, his shrieks of angry dismay about not getting to finish his dinner at the decibel level of a low flying jet airplane. Dean kept up a steady stream of whining, offsetting Sam’s piercing squalls, making Jim almost wish he’d been born deaf. He now had a greater appreciation for John’s ability to raise two small boys and remain mostly sane.

John’s face was a stony mask as he dragged the boys towards the door like a soldier through a combat zone. Sam continued his tirade, squirming enough to force John to readjust the child in his arms constantly lest he drop him.

"Settle down, Samuel, or you’re getting a spanking!" John hissed under his breath into Sam’s ear. Unfortunately, this had the exact opposite effect John was hoping for.

"NO!" Sam suddenly shrieked hysterically at the top of his lungs, "I DON’ WANNA SPANKING, DADDY!"

"Just shoot me now," John wearily muttered under his breath, eyes focused on the door and escape.

Yeah, so he never figured to win the Father of the Year award, but he also had no plans of being accused of child abuse by a bunch of deprecating strangers either. He didn’t even bother to reprimand Sam further as he hurried out of the restaurant under the accusatory glares of the maitre’de and several waiters. He stalked out into the parking lot towards the Impala, praying no one called CPS on his ass after that last outburst by Sammy.

His sole objective right now was to get the hell away from the prying eyes of the public as fast as possible and back to Jim’s, where he could deal with his two rambunctious, disobedient sons in private. And boy, was he going to deal with them, he fumed. There were going to be some colossal birthday spankings happening this evening. It was just that the birthday boy would be giving rather than receiving.

Sam continued to squirm and fuss in John’s arms, twisting and kicking him in the ribs. John grunted, wincing from the last kick, worried he’d lose his grip and drop Sam onto the pavement. His patience at an end, John released his hold on Dean’s wrist a moment, addressing his youngest child in a tone that brooked no disobedience.

"Samuel! Settle down!" John ordered, reaching up with his free hand to deliver a stinging smack to the wiggling bottom that was hanging over his left forearm.

Sam tensed up at the blow, his eyes going impossibly wide before he let out a ragged wail of outraged anguish, followed by wracking sobs that shook his entire body. John ignored the tears, knowing Sam was prone to being melodramatic, especially when he thought he was being wronged in some way. The swat had done its job. The child was too busy sobbing out his displeasure to fidget and squirm any more.

Dean trailed quietly after his father, shooting a worried glance up at Sam who was peeking back at him over John’s shoulder, face red and wet with tears as he took big gulping breaths. Frowning, Dean glanced back at the restaurant they’d vacated, chewing on his lower lip, and then he looked at his father. When they reached the Impala, he tapped his dad on the arm, face sporting a questioning pout.

"Dad? Can we stop at McDonald’s on the way back to Pastor Jim’s?" Dean asked.

John stiffened, stopping in his tracks, not sure he’d heard his child correctly. "Excuse me?"

John’s face darkened with anger, jaw going rigid. I’m going to kill him. The look was more than enough answer for Dean, but John followed it up with words anyway.

"No, Dean, we are NOT going to McDonald’s or anywhere else," John growled. He pointed to the Impala. "Now, get your butt in the car!"

Sam whimpered, cringing. John swung one of the Impala’s rear doors open and deposited a sniffling, petulant Sam in his car seat while Jim quietly slid into the front passenger seat, figuring he’d stay out of the fray until or unless his help was requested. John turned back to grab Dean, and the eight-year-old took a wary step out of his reach, an affronted scowl on his face, his defiance clearly showing in his rigid posture.

John’s eyes narrowed at that. "Bud, you are two seconds away from -"

"But, I’m still hungry!" Dean protested once again, tears welling up in his eyes.

John had absolutely no sympathy at this point. "Dean," he barked for the second time that night. "If you don’t get in this car by the time I count to three, I will paddle your butt right here and now. ONE."

Dean quickly scrambled into the car to take a seat beside his still crying brother, shooting his dad a venomous glower, as if he was the offended party in all this.

It was the most uncomfortable drive home Jim could ever remember making. John gripped the steering wheel as if he were ready to strangle someone, his face contorted into a mask of foreboding anger. The only sound in the car besides the low rumble of the engine was the occasional sniffle and hitch of breath from the back seat as Dean and Sam huddled together, a matching pair of pouts on their tear-stained faces.

John didn’t waste any time once they got to Pastor Jim’s. No sooner had Jim unlocked the front door, John was hauling his two whimpering sons inside. Wordless, he handed Sam off to Jim and started up the stairs to the bedrooms, a sullen Dean in tow. Jim stood at the bottom of the staircase, holding Sam’s hot little hand, debating whether he should go up and try to run interference.

John’s not so subtle glare and determined shake of his head as he disappeared around the corner at the top of the stairs decided it for him. John Winchester packed a powerful right hook when provoked, and butting into the Winchester family affairs when your advice was neither welcome nor needed was a definite provocation. Instead, he headed for the kitchen, Sam toddling along beside him, still weeping quietly.

"What happened to no swearing, no throwing things and minding your manners tonight, Dean?" John questioned, taking a seat on the end of one of the twin beds in the boys’ room, loosening his tie and unbuttoning the first two buttons of his shirt. He pulled Dean in close to stand between his legs.

Dean shrugged, his eyes never leaving the tops of his father’s polished dress shoes. John didn’t wear them very often, so they were still quite shiny and Dean could see his blurry reflection in them.

"I asked you a question and I expect an answer, mister," John’s voice dropped to a dangerous level, making Dean squirm.

Dean knew he’d disobeyed big time, but he wasn’t ready to out and out concede to that since it most certainly meant a spanking would be forthcoming. Dean also knew that lying to his dad would bring about the same unwanted result. Caught between a rock and a hard place, the eight-year-old did the only thing he could think of – he fell back on an old favorite of his.

"I forgot," Dean finally mumbled, the words almost too faint to hear, but John’s ears caught it just the same.

"You forgot?" John echoed in surprise, a vague frown of disbelief crossing his features.

Dean shrugged again and nodded, chancing a quick peek up at his dad’s face. He didn’t like what he saw and quickly ducked his head again. "Uh huh. I just forgot," Dean repeated, firmer this time.

John wasn’t too impressed with the lame explanation. To him, it was bordering pretty close on outright lying, and Dean knew better than that. He reached over to Dean, cupping the boy’s chin in a warm, callused hand, forcing Dean to raise his red-rimmed eyes up to meet his dad’s. John fixed an unwavering stare on his oldest son, hoping it would send a message that he was not going to accept any excuses.

"You forgot that I specifically told you not to throw things or use bad words or make a scene tonight?" John pressed, his brows raised in expectation of a more honest answer this time, and Dean reluctantly complied.

"No, sir," the child quietly admitted, fidgeting in his nervousness. "But, I did forget," he hastily added.

John sighed inwardly. "I’m a little confused here, bud. If you knew you weren’t supposed to swear or throw things, then what exactly did you forget?"

"I forgot not to forget?" Dean suggested hopefully.

Clearly, Dean wasn’t going to let go of this line of reasoning any time soon, John realized. In fact, lately, forgetting had become Dean’s favorite excuse.

The simple little phrase was dragged out whenever Dean left his toys on the floor for John to trip over and step on after he’d been told to pick them up, or when he ate the last few cookies out of the package after being told to share with Sammy, or when he was found watching TV after being told to go to bed. John was not fond of having to repeat himself and knew that he needed to put an end to Dean’s ‘forgetting’ syndrome.

When a mistake became a pattern, it was no longer a mistake in John’s eyes. It was disobedience.

"Dean, did you really forget the rules?" John asked. "Tell me the truth, son."

Dean fidgeted, digging his toe into the carpet before answering in a small, quiet voice filled with shame. "No."

"Then, you’ve just earned yourself a spanking," John stated plainly.

He reached over and began to unbutton and unzip Dean’s jeans, the boy’s eyes growing wide with apprehension. John pulled Dean in close and bent him over his left knee, resting the boy halfway on the bed, little hind end presented to him for punishment. John shucked down his son’s baggy jeans and briefs in one easy motion, and Dean began to panic at the thought of his daddy’s hard hand coming down on his defenseless backside.

"I’m going to make sure you don’t, Dean," John intoned as he delivered a sharp smack to Dean’s bared bottom, eliciting a disconsolate yelp from the child. "In fact, this is gonna be a lasting reminder for you to behave yourself and not forget the rules ever again."

John resolutely began to spank the eight-year-old, the flurry of swats just hard enough to create a memorable sting across Dean’s bottom and upper thighs. Dean balked at the painful heat spreading across his reddened cheeks. His plaintive "ows" and cries of "Daddy, please" as John roasted his behind were by and large ignored. John had a mission to accomplish and he was determined to see it through. Dean needed to learn, in no uncertain terms, that lying and outright disobedience were not going to fly in the Winchester household.

"What were the rules tonight, Dean?" John questioned as he continued to spank his son hard and fast.

He applied his hand firmly, several times in a row to the tender juncture where Dean’s bottom met his thigh, adding to the unpleasant warmth and sting already there.

"When I give you an order, I expect it to be obeyed. I do not expect what I witnessed tonight. And I do not expect to hear excuses from you that you forgot the rules in order to avoid the consequences of your decisions."

John laid down a pair of hearty swats on one butt cheek, one on top of the other, the pink flesh deepening in shade to a brilliant red. He followed up with the same treatment on the other cheek. Dean wailed in misery.

Satisfied, John finished the spanking with several ringing smacks to the meaty part of Dean’s bottom and then stopped, resting his tingling palm on his son’s back as Dean continued to sob pitifully.

"It’s okay, Dean, we’re done now," John said, his voice soft and controlled. He began to rub Dean’s back in a soothing pattern of circles that usually calmed his oldest child down. "You’re okay, bud. I’m not mad at you anymore. You’ve learned your lesson."

Dean’s sobs trickled off to an occasional hitching of breath and then a random hiccup. He wiped at his tear-swollen eyes as John carefully lifted him up and set him back on his feet to stand between his knees once again. Pouting, Dean buried his wet face into his father’s shirtfront, soaking the thin cotton shirt.

John reached down and around Dean to grab the boy’s pants from around his ankles. He gently drew them back up, his heart clenching when the boy whimpered softly as the fabric scraped across his freshly spanked bottom.

"C’mere, buddy," John said, his voice softening, carrying a certain familiar warmth to it that Dean responded to immediately by snuggling hard against his dad’s chest, hands clutching handfuls of John’s shirt.

John pulled Dean even closer, enveloping the child in his muscled arms, fingers of one hand going up to knead Dean’s warm, sweaty neck while the other arm wrapped around Dean’s middle, providing the comfort and safety the child was seeking.

Five minutes later, Dean was calm enough to talk. He still refused to pull his face from his father’s shirtfront though, so his voice was somewhat muffled.

"I don’t like fancy restaurants," Dean stated sullenly.

"Well, that’s probably a good thing since I can’t afford ‘em anyway," John conceded dryly, biting back a smile. "But I’m not so sure it’s the restaurant you’re unhappy about as much as the spanking you just got for acting up and cussing like a sailor while we were there."

Dean squirmed in his dad’s arms. He gazed up at his father, lashes wet with tears. "Uncle Bobby talks like that all the time."

"Uncle Bobby is a grown up, Dean," John replied.

Dean pondered that a moment, his lower lip caught between his teeth. He looked back up at John, eyes wide. "Well then, when I’m a grown up, can I talk like that?"

John tried to hide his smirk. "So, Singer’s your new role model now, huh?" John playfully tousled Dean’s brush cut. "Tell you what, bud. When you’re a grown up, you can talk any way you want." He rose from the bed, eyes still on Dean. "But, remember something. It won’t matter how old you are, Dean, you’ll still be my boy and some rules will still apply."

John used two fingers underneath Dean’s chin, pulling the boy’s gaze up so that their eyes met. "I’ll always expect you to follow orders and show me some respect, no matter how old you get. Understand? Otherwise, you may just find yourself over my knee again whether you’re eight or twenty-eight."

Dean nodded, tentatively rubbing at his sore bottom as he watched his father head for the doorway to the bedroom.

"Now, I want you to stay up here while I go have a little talk with your brother," John said.

Dean frowned at that. John shot him a raised brow. "You got something to say, Dean?"

Dean shrugged, studying the carpet. "It’s just…Sammy’s little, is all. He didn’t mean to be bad, Dad. He was just trying to act like me."

John nodded but didn’t say anything. He understood what Dean was trying to say and couldn’t help but be proud that Dean was trying his best to protect Sam, even from something as un-supernatural as a spanking. He leaned against the door a moment, hands stuffed into his pants pockets, trying to find the words he needed.

"Sammy is little, and he looks up to you, Dean. So, you gotta be extra careful about what you say around him. Part of being a good big brother is setting a good example."

"It’s all my fault!" Dean exclaimed, eyes filling with self-recrimination. "Sammy wouldn’t have been naughty if I didn’t do it first!"

John smiled comfortingly. "Dean, Sammy’s old enough to know that there are consequences for misbehaving. What he did tonight was not acceptable, but that’s on him, you understand?"

"Yeah, but -"

John held up a hand, cutting Dean off. "Dean, where did you learn those swear words?" John asked.

"I – well…from Uncle Bobby." Dean’s eyes clouded with confusion. Not that his daddy hadn’t let slip the same coarse words, but Dean wasn’t about to admit to that aloud. Somehow, he didn’t figure his father would appreciate that bit of honesty.

John tilted his head, studying Dean. "Do you think it’d be fair for me to punish Uncle Bobby for what you did tonight because you learned those words from him?"

Dean seemed surprised by the suggestion. "Dad! You can’t spank Uncle Bobby!" he declared with a grin of delight.

"Hmmph, maybe not," John conceded, grinning back. "Well, not unless I want a load of buckshot in my rear for my trouble." Dean snorted, and John was grateful to see that Dean’s humor had returned. "But, the point of all this is that when I spank you or Sammy, I punish you for your own actions, not the actions of others. Sam decided to misbehave all on his own, Dean. Your brother needs to take responsibility for his decision. That make any sense, bud?"

"I guess," Dean mumbled, still unhappy about what that entailed.

"Don’t worry, Dean-o," John assured the boy as he pushed himself away from the door. "I won’t be too hard on him. I promise." John turned and left Dean to himself.

Sam was perched on the edge of one of the whitewashed kitchen chairs. His sneakered feet swung back and forth, heels banging against the chair’s bottom rail as he watched Jim Murphy set the coffee pot on the stove to perk. The boy’s eyes were still red and puffy from his earlier hysterics, John noted. And they were about to get redder, he concluded with a tired sigh.

Sometimes being a single father of two headstrong young boys was harder than being a hunter fighting demonic evil. Both left you bruised, but John was pretty sure he’d rather take the physical pain of hunting any day over the emotional burden of making his sons cry.

"Sam," John called softly from the doorway. The four-year-old’s head shot up, his eyes traveling over to where his father stood. "We need to talk."

Sam’s lower lip began to quiver, his large green eyes tearing up. He’d heard the muffled howls coming from upstairs and knew he was about to be in the same position.

"Daddy, m’sorry," Sam squeaked, a single tear trailing down his flushed cheek.

"I know you are, Sammy, but you need to come over here," John insisted, motioning with a hand.

"Sam, do as your father says," Jim urged quietly. He put a hand on the boy’s shoulder from behind and gave it a gentle squeeze of assurance.

Sam looked at Pastor Jim and then back at his father. Slowly, he slid off the chair and shuffled over to his dad. John bent down and picked Sam up in his arms, carrying the boy down the short hallway and into the living room. He took a seat on the couch and set Sam down next to him. Sam’s lower lip pouted out as he fiddled with the hem of his shirt, which had become untucked during their skirmish in the parking lot.

"Sammy, do you understand what you did wrong tonight?" John asked softly as he combed his fingers through the child’s long bangs, pushing them back from his eyes. "What did Daddy tell you before we left here?"

Sam fidgeted. He knew.

"Samuel," John prompted, a little firmer in tone this time.

Letting out a ragged breath, Sam finally answered in a low whisper. "I throwed water at Dean n’ I yelled an’ I said a bad word too." He peeked up at his father, eyes wide and tear-filled. "I was a bad boy an’ I’m sorry, Daddy. I’ll be gooder."

John’s stern look softened to an almost smile. "I’m glad to hear that you plan on being good, Sam, but that doesn’t excuse what you did." He reached over, lifting the young boy up and depositing him face down over his lap. "You still deserve a spanking for disobeying me in the first place."

With that, John smacked Sam’s little denim-covered bottom four times with his cupped hand, careful not to come down too hard, just enough to leave some warmth and make the child aware that he meant business.

Nonetheless, Sam wailed in outrage and bucked in his father’s hold. The fact that he was being punished this way upset him more than the actual sting of the swats. John was somewhat amused by the blatant melodrama Sam was displaying. So different from Dean.

"Are you going to follow orders from now on, Samuel?" John questioned, keeping his voice stern.

"Yes!" Sam sobbed, full of repentance.

"Yes what, young man?"

"Yes, sir!" came the immediate reply.

"Thank you," John said. "Now, these last two are for the bad words, Samuel. I don’t ever want to hear that kind of language from you again, do you understand me?"

The question was rhetorical, so John didn’t wait for Sam’s wailed "uh huh" before he brought his palm down one last time on each cheek. Sam’s legs jerked in response and he howled so loudly and pitifully that John figured Jim Murphy would think the kid was being murdered rather than spanked.

As if on cue, Jim’s casually concerned voice called from down the darkened hallway. "Everything all right in there, John?"

"Got it covered, thanks," John replied brusquely. The good Pastor knew better than to interfere outright, but that didn’t stop Jim Murphy from attempting to subtly defuse a situation when he saw fit. John couldn’t fault his friend for that. Hell, he was a preacher after all and that was part of his job, wasn’t it?

"Calm down there, kiddo," John coaxed sympathetically as he picked Sam up and carefully nestled the boy against his shoulder. He began rubbing Sam’s back, following up with a small pat every now and then. It was a familiar gesture; one he’d done many times before to soothe nightmares or calm the boy down after a rough fall. "It’s over, Sammy. We’re done. You’re okay, buddy," he said comfortingly.

Once the desperate sobs quieted into whimpers and most of the tears had been soaked into John’s shoulder, John settled the boy carefully on his lap. He reached down to brush the residual wetness from his son’s face with his thumbs. Sam gave him a fierce glower, letting his dad know he was not in Sam’s good graces. John bore it, pulling Sam’s head down to cradle it in the crook of his arm. Sam complied, but his stiff posture suggested that he still wasn’t happy with the situation or with his dad.

"You ready to go upstairs now?" John asked, looking down at his baby boy.

Sam frowned deeply, but nodded. He pulled away from his father. "I want Dean," he announced sullenly. He squirmed, trying to push his way off his dad’s lap. "I want Dean to take me."

The out and out rejection was a hard thing, though John couldn’t really blame the kid. He was the big ‘meanie’ here. Sam naturally wanted his big brother to come comfort him and take him to bed.

"Dean’s upstairs, Sam," John offered. "I can take you up-"

"No!" Sam was adamant, his face reddening. "Want Dean!" he announced a little louder, getting ready for another tantrum. John’s face darkened, ready for another confrontation.

"John."

John swiveled on the couch to glance over at Jim, who was standing in the doorway. Jim gave his friend a tired smile. He held out his arms. "How about I take Sammy up to Dean for you?"

John nodded, sighing. "Thanks."

He stood up clumsily, realizing it was not an easy task to manage with a struggling four-year-old in his arms. Sam went eagerly to the Pastor, leaving John empty-handed and feeling like a monster.

He ran a hand through his hair. "Guess I’m persona non grata right now," he muttered.

John winced, remembering that was all Sam ever wanted in the first place. And even that he couldn’t give him one. There weren’t any in the house as far as he knew, and it was too late to run to the store. One more strike against him this evening. Yup, definitely a birthday to remember.

"Not sure we have hotdogs, pal, but how about some PBJ sandwiches?" John suggested.

"Grape jelly?" Sam asked, speculatively. They both knew he wouldn’t eat it if it were any other flavor.

"Of course, grape," John said, smiling and leaning over to knead a hand gently over Sam’s head. "Your old man’s not such a complete monster, you know," he said, making a face at the little imp.

Sam tried hard to keep the glower in place, but the sight of his dad sticking his tongue out was too much and he giggled. One point back for dear old Dad.

"Dean said you’re a bossy-boots," Sam declared over Jim’s shoulder as they climbed the stairs. "Is that badder than a monster?"

John’s eyebrows rose at that. "Dean said that, did he? Well, I’ll have to have a little chat with your brother about that sometime." John rolled his eyes. Eight years old and Dean was getting to be regular smart-ass already. God help them all when the boy got a few years older.

John returned to the kitchen to make the promised sandwiches for his sons. He was finishing the last one when he heard Jim come in behind him.

"They give you any trouble?" John asked without turning from the counter.

"Are you kidding me? John Winchester’s kids? Trouble?" Jim chuckled softly, sliding into a chair at the table, leaning his elbows onto the tabletop.

John grunted. "Very funny." He slapped the plate of sandwiches onto a tray and added a couple Hostess cupcakes, along with two juice boxes. He turned to face his friend, a shadowed look crossing his face. "God, they must hate me right now."

"John, those boys love you," Jim said, wondering how anyone could fail to see that. "They’re up there worrying about how they disappointed you tonight. They just want to make it up to you."

If that was supposed to make John feel like less of an ass, it sure as hell didn’t.

"Well, just fuck," John swore softly, not caring that he was standing in the middle of a church rectory. He wished for Mary like a physical longing. She’d know how to make everything better, could always make things right somehow.

Jim saw the shadow fall over his friend’s face. "John," he said gently. "I know I’m no expert, and if you want to tell me I’m full of crap, fine. But, you are not a bad father."

John made a face.

Jim gave him a stern look. "Stow it, Winchester. You’re not. Trust me. I’ve seen my share of bad parenting in my line of work - and you don’t fit that bill." He glanced up at the ceiling. "Those boys would do anything you asked them to. They’d wrestle down the moon!"

"That’s not love, that’s respect for your commanding officer," John retorted, shooting Jim a disgruntled sneer. "Dean and Sammy do what I ask of them because that’s what I require," he stated bitterly. "That’s what they’ve been trained to do ever since they could understand an order." His voice trailed off. "They shouldn’t have to feel guilty for acting like kids, especially when they are kids," he finished quietly. He stared down at his hands in frustration.

"John, you’re not giving yourself enough credit," Jim contested firmly. "You may be a bit of a hardass, but at least you’ve got their best interest in mind. You’re trying to protect them, to keep them safe. You’re a hell of a lot more than their commanding officer; you’re their father."

Jim waved off John’s protests. "And you’ve done a fine job with them. Apart from a few minor behavioral issues," he said with a smile, "they’re both fine boys, John. And they’re going to be fine men. And that’s because of you."

John grabbed up the tray of food on the counter without a word. He moved towards the hall, but stopped just inside the kitchen doorway, his back to Jim.

"Anyone ever tells you, you don’t know shit about people, Murphy? Deck ‘em," John said and then continued down the hall, heading for the stairs.

Dean and Sam were lying on the braided rag rug of the floor in their bedroom, heads together, a slew of crayons scattered in front of them. They were busy coloring something, but both stopped and gazed up expectantly when their father entered the room.

"Someone order some PBJ’s with a side of cupcakes?" John questioned awkwardly.

Dean scrambled up from the floor, a shy grin on his freckled face. He followed his dad over to one of the beds and eagerly took the sandwich from the plate, gobbling up a third of it in one giant bite.

"Whoa there, tiger," John cautioned, watching Dean swallow the bite of sandwich almost whole. "Chew first or you’re gonna choke. Jeez, you weren’t kidding when you said you were still hungry."

"Nuh uh," Dean said. "Din like uh foo at uh res-rant," he mumbled around another huge bite of sandwich.

"Yeah, I think I got that message loud and clear," John replied dryly and Dean bit his lip, one hand sneaking back to rub at his tender rear end.

John watched his youngest still lying on the floor, stubbornly pretending to ignore the enticement of peanut butter and jelly. "Sammy? You hungry?" John asked. He waved a sandwich at the child.

Sam’s growling stomach answered for him. The youngster dropped the purple crayon he’d been coloring with, and rose to his knees, grabbing up the picture he and Dean had been making, before trudging over to his father in silence.

John held out the sandwich to Sam, nodding at the paper in the boy’s hand. "Watcha got there, bud?"

Sam glanced over to Dean, communicating with his expressive eyes. Dean understood the hidden message and shrugged, nodding his assent. Sam thrust the paper into his dad’s hands, exchanging the drawing for the sandwich.

"It’s for you, Daddy," Sam stated simply and then hungrily started in on the sandwich.

"Yeah, we made it for you for your birthday ‘cause we don’t got any money to buy you anything," Dean added shyly. He crawled up on the bed, smearing some peanut butter onto the faded quilt, while he leaned over his dad’s shoulder, gazing down at the picture. "I did most of it, but Sammy helped too. He colored the balloons there." Dean pointed to the top of the page at a bunch of purple and green scribbles that vaguely could have been mistaken for balloons.

John’s throat tightened as he stared down at the drawing in his hands. It was of a big blue birthday cake filled with candles and a little present wrapped with a bow, and of course, Sammy’s balloons. "Happy Birthday Daddy!" was scrawled in red crayon down one side of the page.

"It kind of sucks," Dean said nervously when John didn’t immediately respond.

"It does not suck," John said tightly, his voice thick with conviction.

He pulled Dean into his side, hugging him tightly with one arm. "Thank you, guys," he said softly. "This is an awesome present," he stated proudly, gathering Sam into a bear hug with his other arm and squeezing both boys fiercely, ignoring the fact that Sam had somehow managed to get his sandwich pinned between them and the jelly was now leaking out onto his shirtfront.

John looked down at his little boys with their earnest expressions. He swallowed hard around the lump in this throat. "You didn’t ruin anything, you hear?" he stated firmly. "And you’re not bad. I don’t want you thinking that," John said. "You’re good boys, and I love you. Okay? You just got a little out of hand tonight and forgot the rules. But, we’ve already discussed it. It’s over now, so let’s move on."

"Okay, Dad," Dean said, nodding.

"Daddy, wanna share my cupcake?" Sam offered generously as a way to show his forgiveness.

"Thanks, Sammy," John replied. His smile widened as he took a small bite of the offered dessert.

John’s loving gaze traveled from Dean to Sam as the boys finished their dinner. They were his boys. Mary’s legacy. It wasn’t easy raising children and trying to be a hunter too. But, if nothing else ever went right in this crazy messed-up life of his, John Winchester knew these boys were two of the best presents that had ever been given to him. As long as he had them, he was truly a lucky man.